


I See Trees Of Green

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fic Challenge, Gardening AU, M/M, and all the AUs to be fair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:28:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4 writers take on the same prompt with wildly different results.<br/>The Prompt: Guerilla gardening AU! Harry’s trying to make campus greener but uni admin won’t let him, so he turns to a life of crime and illegal planting. INVOLVE THE OTHER BOYS HOWEVER YOU WANT. — <a href="http://persimmonlions.tumblr.com/">Persimmonlions</a></p><p>Guess who wrote which fic. Even we don't know. </p><p>Us before: I am going to stick to the prompt!<br/>Us after: I did not stick to the prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who submitted a prompt for our fic challenge! Your ideas were all wonderful. Thanks especially to [Persimmonlions](http://persimmonlions.tumblr.com/). We are very sorry that none of us know how to stick to the damn prompt. 
> 
> Love,  
> Giselle, Jas, and Tess. 
> 
> p.s We have not read each other's work. None of us know what the other has written yet. You can guess who wrote which fic and let us know in the comments below.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, sit back, ‘cause he brings the craic and he’s on the attack, ready to talk some smack ‘cause he’s got a knack for taking it up the ba—“

“Oh my _god_ , shut up, Niall!”

The audience roars with laughter and Niall grins sheepishly.

“Looooooooooou Tommo everyone!”

The applause is raucous as ever as Louis steps up onto the Ram stage, lights blinding him momentarily. Even though he’s done this every fortnight since he started at Exeter, the rush of standing up in front of a pub full of slightly drunk students never seems to fade, and in the two years since his first (admittedly terrible) gig, he’s carved himself a spot as “the loud, camp, third year stand-up comedian who has The Ram in stitches on a bi-weekly basis with his sarcastic, observational humour”. Or so Exeposé said in their most recent review during a slow news week. Louis still has the clipping stuffed into his wallet. He’ll take what he can get.

“Cheers, everyone, love each and every one of you. I mean that. We have a special bond, you and I… Except you, Malik, can’t fucking stand you.”

“Love you, Tommo!”

A ripple of fond laughter makes its way through the audience in response.

“How are we all? Are we good? Fresh-faced and happy and ready to start a new year of pissing away our education? Me too!”

He notices a booth in the corner that has been a little quiet; upon closer inspection, its occupants seem to be quite young…

“Ah! Fresh meat! First years, hello first years, how are you?”

They stare at him in horror.

“That was a question,” he stage-whispers conspiratorially. One of the pluckier ones calls out a timid _good!_

“Good!” Louis mimics, and everyone giggles, “Now, first years, — no, that makes me sound like Professor McGonagall — Er… Shark Bait! Seeing as you’re new and have yet to be exposed to my sophisticated, high-brow brand of humour—“

“Bullshit, Tomlinson!”

“— I’ll go easy on you.” Louis flips off the heckler, “We like to do a bit of call-and-response here at Ram Giggles, so just follow along. Now, did everyone get here okay?” a murmur of assent goes up, and Louis leans against the mic stand, getting comfortable before he really sinks he teeth in. “Yeah? Well fucking good for you, I had a miserable time of it. Want to know why?”

“ _Harry Fucking Styles_!” the crowd sings back in five long, laughing notes, and Louis gives an exaggerated frustrated roar.

“ _Fucking_ Styles!” Louis agrees, “Do you know what’s become of our lovely university’s smooth, sloping lawns? Turnips. Styles has planted a fucking turnip patch. I could finish this gig right here and now, I don’t even need to comment on Styles’ existence to make it ridiculous.”

A few titters go up, They’re waiting for him to really rip in. He decides to draw it out.

“Shark Bait — hello, yes, still here, good to see! Are you familiar with our resident Horticultural Anarchist?”

The table, emboldened by his tacit welcome, chant a collective _no!_

“Ooooooooh, this will be fun!” Louis gives the pub a toothy grin and a few people chuckle. He can feel the atmosphere shift to one of expectation; after all, his running gag about ‘Harry Fucking Styles’ has become something of a campus legend, much like the man himself. They’ve never met, though — hell, hardly anybody knows what Styles even _looks_ like — and Louis hopes to keep it that way.

“Let me tell you a story. It starts around this time last year. I’m walking through the Forum with Malik — _hate that guy_ —“ he pauses as the audience titters and Zayn lets out an exaggerated wounded noise from behind his cider, “— And this first year girl from Styles’ eco club or summat, much like yourselves, shoves a petition in my face asking me to support _campus-wide sustainability_ or some shit.”

“Now, that’s not a problem. I love an eco-warrior. I separate my glass from my plastic, I print on both sides of the paper, I’ll rinse out my condoms and—“

Horrified cries and hysterical laughter fills the pub and Louis holds his hands up.

“I am _absolutely joking_ , god, too easy! Even Shark Bait think it’s funny, though they probably only just grew out of fart jokes, bless them.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, Greenpeace, whatever, it’s cool. But once the board has told you ‘no’, you’ve got to move on, right, Shark Bait? _Not Styles_. See, Styles has, in the past year, taken to getting his green thumb on in the middle of the night — even in winter, and let me tell you, it can can get _cold_ in Devon if it wants to — and fucking with our university’s lovely landscape. In the past year alone, he has planted…”

Louis fishes a little notepad out of his pocket and flips to the correct page, making a show of squinting at the growing list.

“Carrots, leeks, string beans — twice —, tomatoes — utter failure —, potatoes, lettuce, squash, a passionfruit vine, six satsuma trees of dubious origin and, now, sodding _turnips_. Always, without fail, across my preferred shortcuts, because, Shark Bait, you can’t get anywhere on this campus without walking up one fucking hill or another and I am not putting more effort into getting around than I have to. You may call me lazy, but I’m living near St. Davids this year. You know what they say about that area?”

“Best thighs on campus!” a few people call out and Louis grins, sticking one hip out seductively. A few people wolf-whistle, and Louis winks.

“Nice of you to notice! But I digress. Shark Bait, if you choose to return next time — and if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down, and I know you all live in Lafrowda, you lucky bastards — but should you so choose, you will come to see that Harry Fucking Styles is an endless source of amusement. My amusement. Which is the only amusement that matters, really. He keeps fucking _planting things_ like he’s Jack Black in School of Rock and aubergines are a rock and roll.” Louis starts playing exaggerated air guitar before bellowing “STICK IT TO THE MAN!”

When the laughter dies down, Louis straightens his posture and lowers his tone.

“But on a more serious note — who is Harry Styles? What does he really want? Does he really expect us to believe that a nineteen-year-old bloke is really that passionate about legumes? No, dear friends. There is something more sinister afoot.”

A rumble of chuckles pass through the audience, now quiet, hanging off Louis’ every word.

“Some say he’s the ghost of a groundsman long dead, doomed to roam these hills and cultivate plants until the end of eternity. Others claim that he’s working for MI-6, building a top secret bunker in south Devon for reasons undisclosed. The wilder theories are that he’s a scientist, hell-bent on genetically mutating vegetables until they become sentient beings, a legion of edible soldiers to do his bidding and start a new empire… Yeah, I made that one up, but I just really fucking _hate_ carrots, alright?”

The dam breaks and a wave of laughter washes over him — it’s been a while since he brought up the carrot thing, The first years in the corner look a little perplexed at the inside joke, but laugh along anyway as Louis bows and leaps off the stage, accepting pats on the back and toasts as he makes his way toward Zayn.

“You’re obsessed, mate,” Zayn greets him affably, “And what happened to your ‘Little Red Courgette’ bit? I liked that one.”

“Ah, Zayn,” Louis replies sagely, sipping his cider pensively, “There’s still full year of Styles mockery to slip that in, don’t you worry your pretty head.”

 

✿❀✿

 

It’s the first Cheesey Tuesday of the year, and Louis is gloriously smashed. It’s his favourite night of the week, is Cheesey, when all of the Exonians take advantage of the £2 shooters at Arena Nightclub and dance to the best that the terrible pop of yesteryear has to offer. Louis has never known anything so utterly _him_. Bless Exeter and all her glorious clubs.

Presently, he’s doing an exaggerated sort of of foxtrot with a nonplussed Zayn to Wham!, breathless with laughter. He’s not even sure what he’s laughing at. People have been shouting him drinks all night — the benefits of being well-known and well-liked — and he’s always been a giggly drunk. People are brilliant. He loves people. He loves — _that one’s face._

It’s just a well-aimed flash of the lights and an incidental glance across the room and Louis’ gone. The face is attached to a tousled mess of chocolate curls, and a long, lithe body that is currently swaying and thrusting to the beat, chest expanding and contracting with hysterical laughter as his partner strikes a disco pose. _Eyes_. _Face. Body. Fuck, yes, where did he come from?_

Louis’ brain comes up to speed just long enough to see that Curly’s dance partner is Niall, the bartender from the Ram who runs the stand-up show. Excellent.

“Zayn,” Louis says, leaning in close to be heard over the music, “That one. Over there. With Niall.”

Zayn swivels to peer over the crowd, before turning back to Louis with a quizzical expression. He’s used to this, has patiently suffered Louis and his libidinous endeavours ever since they made friends on their first day on the basis that they were two northern lads at a southern uni, otherwise surrounded by Oxbridge rejects and business stiffs.

“What about him?”

“I want him,” Louis replies, in the same tone a child would talk about a toy in a shop. Zayn rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“Of course you do. I’m gonna go find Pez, you go chat him up.”

“Wish me luck!” Louis sings.

“Shan’t,” Zayn says flatly, though he claps Louis on the back of the shoulder as he leaves the dance floor, gaining an ample number of interested looks as he goes. Fucking Zayn and his fucking face.

Louis turns back to Curly and — _no!_ He’s leaving the dance floor, shuffling awkwardly on his long legs and bumping into people, apologetic in his body language. It’s endearing. Louis wants to Curly bump into him. Repeatedly. With his dick. What?

Louis backtracks and opts to make his way around the sunken, circular dance floor that the club is named for, slipping between snogging couples and girls nights out, zero-ing in on Curly, who is standing at the corner of the bar, waiting patiently. Louis sighs — he’s adorable, even more so in the proper light shining from behind the bar, illuminating his shapely arms littered with tattoos, _shit_ — but his politeness will get him nowhere in here.

It’s a few minutes before Louis manages to muscle his way to the front of the queue, right next to where Curly is standing. The song changes to ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’, and this couldn’t be going better if Louis had staged the whole thing.

“Two Jägerbombs for me and my friend here, kind sir!” he cries, thrusting a fiver at the bemused bartender. He turns to Curly, who is staring at him with unmistakeable nervousness.

“The friend is you,” Louis informs him, and Curly blinks. The bartender returns with their drinks and Louis’ change, which he drops into the tip cup.

“Really?” Curly sounds doubtful, though he picks up one of the shooters.

“Really. I have a vested interest in befriending fit guys in my vicinity,” Louis replies conversationally, more than aware that his bravado is the result of liquid courage more than actual confidence, so he takes a gulp. Curly looks down at his own drink contemplatively, but doesn’t follow suit.

“And that’s me?”

“That’s you,”

“You’re sure you want to be friends with me?” Curly insists slyly, and Louis gulps.

“Well. Maybe ‘friends’ isn’t the right word,” Louis leans against the bar, and tracks the way Curly’s gaze follows the indent of his waist, the exaggerated curve of his hip down to his thighs. He fights the urge to smirk.

“Hm,” he drags his eyes back up to Louis’ own, licking his lips. Now it’s Louis who flushes. “You know, most people ask for a name before they buy someone a drink. Even if it’s is only two quid.”

“I defy tradition.”

The corners of Curly’s mouth twitch upwards, and Louis’ sure he’s got him. Curly leans in to murmur in Louis’ ear, and Louis grins in triumph. He’s got this boy. He’s caught him.

“Go on. Ask my name.”

 _Hook._..

“Oh, go on. What’s your name, then?”

_Line..._

Curly’s eyes sparkle with something like fierceness before he leans in again, this time purposely brushing Louis’ ear with his lips and making him shiver deliciously.

_Sink—_

“ _Harry Fucking Styyyyyles,”_ he sings in those familiar notes, and Louis’ throat constricts.

And just then, Harry Fucking Styles rocks back on his heels, downs his shooter in one, slams the cups back down on the bar and gives Louis a wicked grin that both manages to make his blood run cold and his dick perk up, before disappearing into the dark crush of bodies.

Louis stands there for a long while, frozen, before setting his half-full shooter on the bar and joining the line of the cloakroom, suddenly feeling far too sober for this.

 

✿❀✿

 

Zayn isn’t sympathetic.

“You tried — to fuck — Harry Fucking — Styles,” he pants, tears of mirth pooling in his dark eyes. They’re lying on Louis’ bed, picking at the fairly disgusting eggs that Louis attempted to make for breakfast.

“Well, technically I was trying to get _him_ to fuck—“

“Too much information,” Zayn cuts him off smoothly, wiping his eyes. “Oh, that’s good. That has to go in your next Harry Fucking Styles bit.”

“Jesus, _no_. He’ll probably be there! I can never talk about him again!” Louis realises with a stab of horror. “Fuck, I’m going to have to change universities. I can never show my face again! Someone will want me. Maybe Nottingham, surely they’re desperate…”

“Lou,” Zayn rolls his eyes and flicks a corner of toast at him. “It’s not that bad.”

Lou makes a noise somewhere between a wail and a groan and rolls off the bed and onto the floor.

“Leave me here to die.”

“No, it’ll smell, _get up,_ you tosser. You have writing to do.”

“What ‘m I gonna write about? I can’t tell them what happened, they’ll _laugh_ at me!”

“Isn’t that the whole—“

“Hush.”

 

✿❀✿

 

The days leading up to his next gig are filled with panic — Niall won’t let him back out on account of the fact that three quarters of the Ram Giggles audience is only there to see Louis, though he suspects it’s partially because he’s friends with Harry Fucking Styles and wants to see Louis get his all-too-deserved comeuppance. Not that he actually believes Niall is capable of being that vindictive. Or maybe he does. Louis doesn’t know anything anymore.

Worse still, Harry Fucking Styles has planted swede patches across _every single one_ of Louis’ favourite shortcuts. It’s just not a good week.

As it is, Monday evening rolls around and Louis is standing in front of an expectant Ram. He peers out at the tables, silly narrative at the ready, hoping against hope that Harry Fucking Styles is not present.

“This’ll be a short one, so savour my every word. First things first… Shark Bait? You here?”

A timid cheer goes up from a booth farther to the right than last time.

“You came back! Brilliant! For those of you who rudely missed last time, Shark Bait is a collective noun for the first years at that table who I am very kindly trying to educate in our proud Exonian ways,” Louis grins, and there are a few titters. “Boy, do I have some news for you! Now, anyone who knows me will be able to tell you where I can be found on any given Tuesday evening…”

“Cheesey!” a few people yell heartily and Louis relaxes. He can do this. He has to do this. This audience is a horse, they can sense his fear. They will chew up the metaphorical hay that is his act and spit it out like a metaphorical… Spat-out hay. Louis isn’t very good with analogies.

“Too fucking right! Now, I’m having a dance, having a drink, minding my own business, when I suddenly had an instinct, sort of like a tingling spidey sense, if you will. I knew he was there, like a parsnip-scented shadow in the night. You know who I’m talking about?”

“ _Harry Fucking Styles!_ ” they chorus, this time joined by Shark Bait. Louis nods gravely, and a hush descends.

“Correct. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, like the shoots on a potato you’ve left in the pantry for too long,” he pauses as they giggle, subtly wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. “No idea what he looks like, mind you, but I knew he was amongst us, moving like a cold, winter wind. Suddenly, somebody bumped into me, but I didn’t pay attention,” Louis drops his voice. “A grave mistake.”

The Ram is silent now, as Louis reaches into his bag and pulls out the only prop he’s ever used for his act, not counting his notebook. He keeps is carefully concealed behind his body.

“When I regained my balance, I couldn’t see them anywhere, but I was holding… _this!_ ” Louis whips the leek out from behind his back and the audience falls about; even Zayn is visibly chuckling down the back, and Niall is grinning into the glass he’s polishing behind the bar. But somewhere over the roaring laughter, he hears a frighteningly familiar voice bellow _“LIES!”_ , though by the time the noise dies down, it’s too late to respond. Louis isn’t even sure anybody else heard. He takes a deep breath and wraps it up.

“We may not know his face, his agenda, or even his true name, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps we never will. Perhaps we will grow old and grey, wondering who, if not _what_ Harry Fucking Styles was. We will pass the legend on to our children, and they will pass it on to their children until he becomes an urban legend, the mythical symbol of Devon,” he punctuates his musings with the leek, and the audience continues to giggle. “But you can tell them this; Harry Fucking Styles may or may not be affiliated with the Welsh. And we cannot, I repeat, _cannot_ trust the Welsh.”

The audience applauds as Louis steps down, and he accepts a proffered pint from Zayn when he finally reaches their usual table down the back. After a short while, Niall appears, a stack of empty glasses balanced in the crook of his arm.

“You know,” Niall says mildly, “He’s actually from Cheshire, not Wales.”

Louis and Zayn stare after him as he winks and makes his way back to the bar.

 

✿❀✿

 

It’s a golden Thursday afternoon in Exeter, it’s been a difficult week, and Louis Tomlinson needs a fucking scone.

The cathedral green is buzzing with people, lingering tourists and locals out in the warm autumn sun as Louis makes a beeline for Tea on the Green, tucked away on the green’s northerly corner. He doesn’t spare the bottom level a second glance and instead clambers up the narrow stairs and takes his usual spot at the upstairs window, grateful for the peace of the deserted upper level as he peruses the menu like he’s not going to order the same thing he orders every time he takes a Cream Tea Mental Health Day.

It lasts for all of about three minutes.

“Erm, excuse me… Louis?”

His head snaps up at the horribly familiar voice, and finds Harry Fucking Styles standing over him, looking tentative. He looks even better during the day, the tawny, window-filtered sunlight illuminating the bright green of his eyes and the bitten pink of his lips, his pale skin turned gold and contrasting with the white of his shirt.

“Yes?” Louis squeaks, making a note to be embarrassed later.

“Just wondering… I mean, I saw you come in, and I was sort of a dick to you the other night, and, well, I’m here alone and you’re here alone and I thought maybe we could be not-alone together? Unless you want to be alone, in which case I’ll… Go. Be alone…By myself.”

Oh, _Christ_.

Not trusting himself to speak at a pitch discernible to anyone but dogs, Louis gestures at the seat opposite his own, and Harry slides his dark brown Cambridge satchel off his shoulder and sinks into it awkwardly. A few beats pass.

“I’m sorry,” they say in breathless unison, and after a stunned moment, Harry snorts and Louis feels himself grinning.

“The fuck are _you_ sorry for?” Louis demands, gesticulating wildly, “Harry, you could sue me for defamation!”

“Are you joking? Your Harry Fucking Styles bit is hilarious!” Harry replies incredulously, and Louis’ heart stutters in his chest at the way Harry’s face lights up. “And to answer your question, it wasn’t nice, what I did to you the other week… Though, your fucking _face…_ ” he breaks off with a deep chuckle, and Louis knows they’re okay.

“I have never been so mortified in my _life_ , you tosser.” Louis informs him, kicking his ankle playfully, “All I’ve been able to think about is all the shit I’ve said about you and how you knew the whole time!”

“Louis,” Harry says flatly, “Do you honestly think that if I’d been that upset by you, I’d have kept doing the vegetable thing?”

“Erm, sorry?” a waiter with big, brown eyes pipes up from over Harry’s shoulder, “Are you ready to order?”

Louis hadn’t even noticed him coming up the stairs. It’s possible he’s already in too deep already.

“Yeah, Wells and Tregothnan for me, thanks, love,” Louis rattles off.

“Same,” Harry adds, closing their menus and handing them to the waiter with a smile that makes Louis’ stomach swoop. “Thanks, Li.”

“No problem,” ‘Li’ looks between the two of them strangely before raising his eyebrows at Harry once and heading for the stairs. Louis resolves to ask Harry about it later; for now, he has a more pressing question.

“So,” he clasps his hands in front of himself, “The big question. Why _do_ you do it?”

Harry smirks.

“What makes you think it’s not one of your guesses? The one about being a rogue member of the Heavitree WI was my personal favourite.”

“Oh god,” Louis buries his face in his hands. “You must think I’m _so_ weird.”

“Nah, you’re cute,” Harry replies, and if Louis wasn’t listening to the actual words he would have thought Harry was commenting on the nice weather. “It was funny. I wash dishes at The Ram, couldn’t help overhearing your obsessive monologues about me.”

“ _Stop_ , please, have mercy!” Louis’ cheeks feel like they’re on fire, he’s surely flushed down to his chest by now. When he finally brings himself to meet Harry’s gaze, though, he doesn’t look devious. He’s taking Louis in, and Louis is suddenly aware of how his red cheeks and bitten, swollen lips must look…

“It’s funny.”

“Sorry?” Louis is startled from his reverie, suddenly self-conscious. Oh god does he look funny? Does Harry find his nervous-slash-aroused face comical?

“Why I do it. The vegetable thing,” Harry clears his throat and continues. “The first time was a bit of a petulant statement because the board wouldn’t fund a communal greenhouse for each of the residences like we asked, but then people seemed to find it amusing, and you brought it up at your gig and you were just so funny when you talked about it…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Louis cuts in, not missing the way Harry’s cheeks are now tinted pink, “You’re saying you kept up the vegetable thing _because_ I complained about it all the time at Giggles?”

Harry shrugs.

“I mean, a bit. Also because I like a good joke. And bad jokes, for that matter. Anyway, Niall and Liam help me out with it a lot, unless it’s the dead of winter. To be fair, you made it pretty easy, always talking about your favourite shortcuts—“

“You did that _on purpose?!_ ”

“Supplied you with a year’s worth of material, yeah, you’re welcome,” Harry finishes smugly, and Louis gapes at him. “And… Well, I guess I had a bit of a crush on you at the time, and it was nice having you notice me, even if just for the leeks.”

Louis stares at him. Harry’s doing a good job of looking unabashed, but Louis doesn’t miss the vibrations in the floorboards beneath his feet made by Harry’s feet tapping out nervous staccato beats. This boy planted fucking vegetables all over campus just because he thought it was funny. Because Louis thought it was funny. Because Louis _noticed_.

“Well. That’s annoying.”

A brief flash of hurt crosses Harry’s features, though his voice is calm when he replies.

“Sorry?”

“I mean, I was going to ask you out, but since we’re already here…” Louis shrugs, trying and probably failing to look casual about it. Especially when a slow, sunny grin spreads across Harry’s features and he can’t help but return it.

“Well, if you’re willing to pretend that this was a premeditated date, I’m willing to treat it like one.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what would that entail?”

“Well,” Harry leans forward, elbow on the table and chin on his palms, “I kiss on the first date.”

“Thought you said your little crush was in the past tense.”

“Did not.”

“Okay, then,” Louis comments, and leans forward out of his seat, and before his courage can fail him, before he can reason that he’s only having his second ever conversation with this boy, presses a chaste kiss to Harry’s lips and bringing a finger up to trail along his jawline. There’s no heat behind it — not yet, anyway — and Harry’s lips are perfect, just yielding enough under his own but still insistent, still sure.

Before long, though the two of them are interrupted by a pointed cough, and find that they’re no longer alone, watched by an unamused-looking Liam toting two trays laden with tea and scones. He sets them down on their table with what sounds like a muttered _about bloody time_ , _Haz._

When he’s gone, they dissolve into giggles, and Louis reaches for a scone, slathering it with clotted cream and jam.

“You’re something else, you know that, Styles? Not many guys would literally move the earth just to get somebody’s attention. It’s sweet.”

Harry smiles shyly, biting into a scone.

“Worth it,” he mumbles with his mouth full, and Louis is hopelessly endeared.

 

✿❀✿

 

“Ladies! Gentlemen! Shark Bait! How are we? Nice and warm? You know, I feel it’s my duty as a northerner and a Game of Thrones fan to remind you that Winter is Coming. See? You even got the accent. You’re all welcome.”

He’s at ease this evening, and the audience is already giggling, and a girl up the back with pink hair calls “ _the Lannisters send their regards!”._ Louis makes a show of glaring and shaking his fist at her, and another ripple of laughter goes up.

“Now, dear audience, I feel like we’re friends. These chats we have — well ‘these chats’, I chat at you — you know, it’s like a big sleepover. We braid each other’s hair, we talk about boys… Well, I feel like we need to have a little D&M.”

The atmosphere is still receptive, but all Louis notices is a pair of eyes glued to him from behind the bar. He suppresses a grin.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed the lack of vegetable-related bitching over the past couple of gigs, and I’ll admit I miss your lovely voices singing, so we’ll do it again today, but —“ someone jumps the gun and begins to chant ‘ _Har-‘_ _“Wait!_ Jesus, you’re eager!” the audience laughs and the offending singer blushes and grins.

“Okay, so back to our D&M. I have news. I have managed to convince some poor fool to be my boyfriend—“ a few cheers and wolf-whistles, “Yes, I know. Shocking. Not nearly as shocking, though as what I’m about to tell you a little bit about him. Does anyone want to take a stab at what his name is?”

The Ram is silent. Louis wants to laugh. _The one bloody time…_

“Oh, come on, Keen Bean over here had it before!”

The pub erupts into hysterical laughter and cheers, before Louis rolls his eyes and raises his arms like a conductor before an orchestra, leading them through the most impassioned _HARRY FUCKING STYLES_ he’s ever heard. The cheers grow louder when Harry appears at the side of the stage and Louis pulls him up, kissing him on the corner of the mouth.

“The man, the myth, the legend himself, ladies and gentlemen!” Louis crows proudly as Harry bows, that bashful smile pulling at his lips. Louis leans in to whisper in his ear as the crowd continues whistling, already clearly as besotted with him as Louis is, “You’re a right charmer, you know that?”

“Psssh. You think I’m funny. And sweet,” Harry replies with a cheeky smirk, eyes glittering before he adds, “Or swede, as it were.”

He looks like Christmas has come early when Louis replies:

“I didn’t mean any of it. I just wanted to get into your plants.”


	2. Chapter 2

The library lights are on.

It's such an innocuous phrase, but Louis and his sleep-deprived brain fixate on it as he stands in the library foyer, lit by the pale glow.

It's 2.45 in the morning, and a sudden bout of panic regarding his PhD had driven Louis back onto campus, well and truly proving the old phrase that "nothing good happens after 2 am."

The thing is, he thought only PhD students got library access after hours. And like, he is the only PhD candidate in the Medieval Studies department right now, which means he's really the only person who should be at the history library at 2ish in the morning. The Modern History candidates are all a lot more zen about everything and don’t seem to experience these late night panic fits. He thinks this might be because they don't spend half their time staring at tapestries and consequently have retained more of their sanity, but he can't be certain. It's also possible they're all high half the time anyway. Or at least, that's what his friend Zayn had tried to explain to him once. ' _How do you think I cope with spending all day reading about Nazis,'_ Zayn had said. Louis had just rolled his eyes.

Regardless, by all logical thought processes, the library lights should not be on.

“Hello?” he calls, because it’s not that big a building, just the one floor sprawling through open plan rooms of books and books and study tables and more books.

No one answers, so he ventures forward, trying to dispel the persistent sense of suspense that claws at him. He’s not really sure why he feels such trepidation at who he’s going to find in here. It’s not like Slenderman is known for hitting the books.

He guesses it’s because whenever he’s come to the library at night, it’s been his, and his alone. He relishes the peaceful domain, relies on it to get his thoughts in order and on paper so he can finally fall asleep back in bed as the sun cracks the sky. That’s threatened now, by whoever has somehow joined him.

“Hi,” says a voice when Louis enters the European section, and he stills in his tracks, trying to locate it’s source. There’s not actually anyone around, but it had sounded so close, almost as if it was-

-hovering above him?

Louis glances up and steps back in fright. There’s someone perched on top of the shelving to his immediate right. Also, ferns. Like, twenty ferns, and pots of flowers, and a couple of trailing rose trellises. They’re scattered across the tops of the shelving units in surprisingly sophisticated arrangements.

"What are you doing?"

The panicked words slip from Louis' lips before he can spot check them for a more calm tone, or the possibility of something wittier. It's just, it's 2 in the morning, and he'd stumbled into the library expecting silence, darkness, peace. Instead, there's a cavalcade of plants and this boy, this lanky, glowing, smiling boy, who-

Hang on.

"I know you," Louis says next, before the boy can answer. "You're the library assistant. Harry, right?"

"You know my name?" Harry asks from where he's perched on top of the shelving like he belongs there. Like he was a mountain goat in a past life or something.

And yeah, Louis knows his name. It occurs in the next few seconds to Louis, that he also knows Harry’s birthday, preferred cupcake flavour, favourite authors and bands, and opinion on the true king of Westeros. Louis has spent an embarrassing amount of time listening in on Harry's chats with other library staff, because Louis thinks Harry is eleven thousand times more enchanting than his work on the socio-religious content of the Roland epic. Which he really should not be blamed for, because Harry has these wild brown curls and startling muscle definition and ridiculous tattoos that Louis wants to bite, and also Harry thinks Margaery Tyrell should rule Westeros, which Louis finds delightful.

Louis can say none of this, however.

"Uh, yeah. I'm here a lot," Louis mutters nonchalantly instead, and Harry nods.

"I know. I see you all the time. But I don't know if we've ever spoken."

Right. They haven't, have they. Which means Louis is really just kind of a secret stalker. Fabulous.

"I'm Louis," he announces, for lack of a better response, but there's something else he needs to get to. "And you're surrounded by plants?”

"Yes..." Harry admits stoically. "Yeah. I am, aren't I."

He doesn't really continue though, just musses his hair in a seemingly unconscious gesture, and Louis finds himself nodding into the silence until he feels compelled to fill it.

"....... Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the plants."

Harry looks a little like a rabbit caught in headlights. "I just uh, I just thought the library could use them?”

Louis stares. He stares at Harry, whose long legs dangle over a shelf full of ancient French poetry. He stares at the fern that Harry is holding. He stares at the large variety of greenery that is spread across the top of Harry's shelf, several other shelves in the vicinity, and actually now that he’s looking around, a good portion of the desks.

"Don't you think," Louis reflects finally, his eyes skimming back to Harry, "that this is kind of taunting the books?"

"The books? Why?"

"Well it's a bit like metaphorical cannabilism, isn't it," Louis explains, scratching his nose. "Like, hello books, this is what your pages used to be. Sorry. May they enjoy their eternal death slumber bound between skin and synthetics.”

Harry bursts into laughter, which Louis feels disproportionately pleased with.

“Except, I don't think any of these books were bound in human skin," Harry notes cheerfully, and Louis snorts.

"I meant leather you twat."

"Regardless," Harry dismisses with a hand wave, "books were trees. Not ferns or flowers."

"Same thing," Louis laughs, and Harry makes a face like someone has kicked his puppy.

"Not the same thing! Don't listen to him, sweetheart," he adds, miming covering the non-existent ears of the fern.

“Sweetheart? Oh lord, I bet you're the kind of person who names his plants. What's this one then, Beatrice?"

Harry gives him a long, hesitant look, then sighs in defeat. "Malvolio."

"Naturally," Louis nods, trying and failing not to be delighted by every word that comes out of Harry’s mouth, as usual. It’s just that normally he can be delighted in private, behind the cover of his laptop. Not out in the open like this, where there is nothing to hide behind between him and the object of his long-distance affection.

"So the question remains,” Louis finds himself saying without stopping to consider his words, because his brain is kind of full of _HARRY HARRY HARRY RIGHT HERE TALKING TO ME HARRY_ at present, “do you need help? I was meant to be working on my thesis, but this looks more fun."

"You don't think Roland would miss you too much?" Harry asks, and Louis lifts a shoulder in nonchalance.

"I think Roland can manage without me for- hang on." Louis furrows his brow. He looks down to check that he's just holding his laptop, no books. Nothing that should give it away. So how… "How do you know my thesis is on Roland?"

Harry stills, hands still clutching the sides of his fern.

"Um. I might have looked at your borrowing history. A little.” Harry ducks his head, and if Louis isn’t mistaken he can see a faint blush spreading over Harry’s cheeks. Harry looked him up. Which means Harry did know his name. So that’s rather grand.

“Short on good books, are you?” Louis grins, trying to alleviate Harry’s embarrassment by staring pointedly at the surrounding shelves, and Harry can’t resist sharing a laugh.

“Well when you put it like that…” Harry shrugs, looking up at Louis. “I just noticed you were in here a lot. Was curious.”

“Right,” Louis says, feeling slightly disappointed that it wasn’t something more. Not that Harry could possibly have been about to launch into a confession of undying attraction and offer to do Louis right there on the table. But a man can dream.

On the subject of tables, it occurs to Louis that since he has made the effort of coming all the way down here in the middle of the night, he should probably go through with attempting what he had originally intended.

“Uh, I should probably-“ he begins, gesturing at the study area, and Harry nods hastily.

“No, of course. Go. Do your thing. I’ll just be here. With my ferns.” He trails off a little uncertainly, pulling a face as though he has somehow managed to confuse himself with his own words.

Louis thinks there is a 97% chance he is making incredibly obvious heart eyes at this adorable specimen of a human, and that’s frankly embarrassing, so he forces himself to turn and march towards his preferred desk.

Study goes...slowly.

Louis finds the book he was after with ease, and huddles into the plush chair that technically belongs in the reading area, but that many months ago he had commandeered for this specific study table. They’d moved it back the first three or four times, but eventually he’d worn that one stubborn librarian down into leaving it be. Liam, he thinks the guy’s name is. Sweet, but very fond of order. Louis does not like order. Louis sometimes throws paper airplanes so that they land on Liam’s desk while Liam is in the toilet.

It’s just hard to concentrate now, because he is acutely aware that his focus of his pining for several months now - ever since Harry had caught Louis’ attention by tripping over his own books trolley and wound up laughing on the floor, covered in Descarte’s various treatises - is suddenly and startlingly within his reach.

Well, not literally. Louis would need arms like Mr. Fantastic to be able to reach Harry where he perched high above it all, stringing a couple of baskets of indeterminate wildflowers from the halogen strip lights.

It doesn’t help that the silence is periodically broken by Harry’s soft laughter, presumably at himself, or the occasional humming refrain of some popular song.

Louis straightens his posture, trying to narrow his field of focus to his glowing laptop screen. It’s been nearly half an hour, and he’s read about three paragraphs. One of them twice.

Roland, he thinks. France. Charlemagne. Homoerotic subtext. Bloodshed.

“Tea?”

The unexpected voice jars with his line of thought, so that for a strange second he finds himself trying to remember what tea has to do with medieval heroism. And then he realises that if he turns to his left, he can see Harry standing right next to him, smiling.

“What?” Louis blurts out, blinking.

“Tea. Beverage made from leaves. Typically made with milk and lemon,” Harry elaborates, and Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes. Fondly, but still.

“No I know- yes, thankyou. Tea would be great.”

“Ok, kitchen is that way,” Harry says, pointing behind him and waiting. Louis’ brain is still not quite up to speed, and he thinks maybe his expression is still frozen somewhere between confusion and disbelief when Harry bursts out laughing. “Only kidding. Back in a bit.”

He turns and wanders off in the direction he had pointed. Louis waits until he’s gone before letting his head fall hard against the desk.

“Pull your shit together,” Louis mutters to himself, his forehead resting on the hard wooden surface. It does not help.

The tea, when is appears, is warm and soothing, and is definitely more useful in sorting his whirling brain out. Except, his thoughts are so not where they should be, because now he bloody has company.

“So what’s it like working here?” Louis asks, reclining comfortably in his chair while Harry props his feet up on the table. He’d taken a seat, apparently intending to join Louis for the hot drinks break, and Louis is not complaining. 

“Good. Fun. They let me come in after hours and put plants around the place, so.” Harry grins lazily, taking a sip.

“Yeah, how come you’re here at this hour anyway? Surely the plants could have waited?”

“They could have,” Harry concedes, resting his chin on the rim of his mug. The steam wafts in front of his face, but doesn’t seem to bother him. “I just can’t sleep very much lately. It’s an on-off problem, had it all my life. So I figured hey, why not get the plants done now so that tomorrow when the students come in they’ll get some joy out of the unexpected change. Especially the ones that are here every day.” He smiles at Louis, green eyes meeting Louis’ own unselfconsciously.

“Sorry to ruin the surprise,” Louis replies, feeling genuinely guilty. As if he’d somehow accidentally told a child that Santa wasn’t real.

“You didn’t. It’s actually nice to have someone here,” Harry just says with a shrug, “I like the company."

"Insomnia is often a lonely business," Louis muses, and Harry hums his agreement.

"A lot of the time. Not always. I get a lot of reading done."

"How does reading alleviate loneliness?" Louis asks, and Harry looks at him as though he's trying to explain to Louis the colour of the sky. Sort of befuddled, like he's not sure whether the answer should be obvious to his audience, or if he's missing something.

"Because books are full of amazing people," Harry tells him, eyes ever so slightly imploring. "It's almost as good as real company. Has been like that for me, anyway. Always."

Louis feels like his chest is trying to burst from beneath his skin, his heart hurts so badly. He hates the thought of Harry sitting alone in the depths of night, when the world gets quiet and it feels as though it's pressing down on you. He knows the feeling. Intimately.

"Books and plants?"

"Books and plants," Harry nods, and he smiles brightly all of a sudden. "I mean, and real people. I have those too. Honest, I'm not like, the Hunchback of Notre Library."

Louis laughs, glancing at the little bonsai tree that Harry had brought to the table with the tea. He gets it. You can have all the company in the world during the day, the closest friends, the most loving family. But in the middle of the night, everything from the daylight world just kind of deserts you. It's a different realm entirely.

"But I’m guessing you understand," Harry's voice breaks into his thoughts. "You can’t sleep either?” 

“Never can when my mind gets going,” Louis sighs, prodding his laptop with disdain. He suffers periodic sleeplessness, but it's only ever thesis related. “But all my best work gets done in the middle of the night.”

“Ah, well I won’t keep distracting you then,” Harry says, rising from his chair. Louis stifles his noise of disappointment and attempts an unaffected nod instead. It probably doesn’t work as well as he’d have liked.

“Thanks for the tea, Harry.”

“Any time.”

And then Harry’s back to his plants, and Louis’ back to his thesis. Or, almost.

Because every now and then, Harry will bring Louis something, like a biscuit, or a book, or a flower braid of daisies that he threads into Louis’ hair while Louis finally makes sense of that bloody paragraph. Louis in turn reads entertaining mistranslations out, or tells Harry knock knock jokes because he laughs at them as though they’re the height of comedy.

And for some reason, despite the interruption to the flow of his work, he finds he makes progress twice as fast as normal. He feels calmer, more centred, and every time the immensity of what he’s working on threatens to come roaring up from within him, or the sudden stark loneliness of the hour settles heavily on his shoulders, he turns around and Harry has made himself a moustache out of leaves.

The night passes slowly around them until grey dawn hints at the windows, knocking on the glass to let them know their time is up. Louis yawns, stretching in his chair, and looks around. It has been almost twenty minutes since he’s last seen Harry, but the library’s transformation appears to be finished.

It’s almost otherworldly, the effect the plants have on the place. The ceiling is alive with vibrant greens, murky greens, fresh and bright and dark and bold. Everywhere, hints of floral colour burst forth from their arrangements. And the ferns, Harry’s beloved ferns, trail down the sides of shelves as though the jungle itself was seeking to reclaim every word ever written.

Louis hadn’t quite noticed throughout the night, but the overall effect now standing starkly before him is nothing short of wonderful.

“Harry?” Louis calls into the empty space. “Harry, it’s amazing!”

No one answers, and Louis frowns. He’s sure Harry hasn’t left, because his brown satchel is still slumped against the wall behind the service desk. Louis folds his laptop into his bag and dumps it next to Harry’s, before pushing through the door into the staff area, and coming to a halt.

Harry seems to be asleep on an immense bean bag chair.

His face is calm and beautiful in it’s relaxed state, and though he’s tall and solidly built, he appears so incredibly vulnerable in sleep. Louis can’t resist walking silently forwards, until he’s standing over Harry, smiling down at him.

He realises, if Harry were to open his eyes, it would probably seem incredibly creepy. Louis doesn’t want to pull an Edward Cullen, though he’s beginning to understand the compulsion. He feels his shoulders slump a little, and he turns to leave, pushing down the feeling that he’s let something irreplaceable slip through his fingers.

A hand curls in the hem of his jeans, stopping him in his tracks.

“Louis,” Harry says softly, his voice rough with sleep.

“Harry,” Louis replies, turning back to face him. "It's beautiful, the library. You're amazing."

“I got the idea for the flowers from you,” Harry tells him, eyes flickering open. Louis stills, unsure if he’s imagining things.

“You what?”

“Well, from your friend Niall, actually,” Harry sighs, rubbing blearily at his eyes. “He was in here with you a while back, he said you needed to get out more. That you were missing spring.”

Louis gapes at Harry, the memory of that conversation resurfacing - it had to have been almost a month ago. “You- you remembered that?”

Harry nods.

“You brought me spring?”

Harry nods again, the bean bag crunching against the movement.

“I hope that’s ok,” Harry murmurs, one hand covering his eyes as though out of shame.

“It’s- ” Louis gapes, unable to quite order his words. “You-”

“I’m sorry,” Harry half-whispers, as thought he's hesitant to let the words out. “I didn’t mean to make things weird. You’re just, you’re always here and working so hard, I just thought you could use a smile.”

Louis stares, feeling as though someone has tipped the world entirely on it’s axis. Harry noticed him. Harry wanted to make him smile. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t how things went. Louis was meant to be pining from afar, hopeless and invisible. Louis was meant to wonder every day if this was the day he’d be noticed. 

His brain was erupting in fireworks. This wasn’t-

Harry was -

“Coffee,” Louis finally manages, prompting a look of confusion from Harry. “You and me. Coffee.”

“What?” Harry asks, still bleary with sleep, and Louis drops into a crouch so that they’re face to face.

“I would really like to take you on a date, Harry Styles, librarian who likes banana cupcakes and Ed Sheeran and Margaery Tyrell.”

Harry’s eyes have widened considerably. “Hang on...”

"I might listen to your conversations as often as you listen to mine," Louis admits sheepishly, and is rewarded when Harry's confusion smoothes into a bright smile.

“I’m just as gone as you are, babe,” Louis finishes, leaning forward slightly, unconsciously. “Have been for months.”

“You too?”

“Me too,” Louis nods, grinning. He could count every eyelash of Harry’s. He would, too. God damn, he’s fucking insane.

But Harry’s the one who reaches for Louis’ shirt and pulls him foreward so that their lips meet, so maybe he’s just as insane as Louis. He tastes warm and earthy and a little bit like tea, and there’s a dart of tongue from Harry and a giggle from Louis as they press together, breathe each other in, relish the fact that this moment has finally come. It’s sweet and slow and they take their time drawing it out.

“We can go on a date some time,” Harry murmurs when he pulls back, unwilling to let go of Louis’ shirt. “But maybe after we get some sleep.”

"Now?" Louis asks as Harry tugs at him, and Harry nods.

"You have better plans?" Harry replies, his voice laced with drowsiness, and Louis shakes his head. Because no, he definitely, adamantly does not.

Harry rolls over, pulling Louis in so that Louis falls onto the beanbag around the shape of Harry. Harry’s back presses into Louis’ chest, and when he lets go of Louis’ shirt Louis laces their fingers together.

He’s waited months for this moment.

As his eyes close and Harry’s breathing slows, it feels absolutely worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

This content has been intentionally removed.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let us know what you think in the comments! Or say hi on tumblr: 
> 
> Enough time has passed to reveal who wrote which fic!  
> Chapter 1: [Goldenquill ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenquill/pseuds/goldenquill)  
> Chapter 2: [Avacall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Acavall/pseuds/Acavall)  
> Tess: [Acavall](http://compassanddragon.tumblr.com/)


End file.
